


Men’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze

by silentGambler



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, Romeo e Giulietta - Ama e Cambia il Mondo, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Enemies to Lovers, Happens pre- and within canon, M/M, Other Characters Are Mentioned, Porn With Plot, Smut, Tybalt-centric, except it’s more like ‘we’re still enemies but we got this weird love/hate thing going on’, tycutio - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-10 02:00:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18650629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentGambler/pseuds/silentGambler
Summary: The Prince’s nephew is mad, but Tybalt thinks there isn’t a single person in Verona who sees him more clearly than Mercutio.





	Men’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze

**Author's Note:**

> Initially this was me waxing poetic about Tybalt and ended up being me waxing poetic filth about Tybalt and Mercutio hatefucking and accidentally falling in love. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

He thinks of himself as a Capulet first. An orphan, a nephew, a cousin, a swordsman, wrath incarnate. And last of all he thinks of himself as Tybalt, as an individual. He assumes —knows, really— this is the way people perceive him too; he is a son of Capulet, his uncle’s nephew, his duty to the family first and foremost. He’s Juliet’s cousin, an orphan; he’s the angry boy that should be grateful to be under Lord Capulet’s care. He’s the wild young man whose sword won’t stay away from Montague steel, despite the many warnings of the Prince. The people of Verona know him for the things he’s surrounded by, but no one bothers with Tybalt himself.

Except Mercutio.

Mercutio’s eyes pierce into Tybalt’s as if he knows everything, as if he could read his very soul. And he smiles and calls him Prince of Cats, makes his blood boil until he sees nothing but red, his hands itching for a fight. And almost as soon as he makes Tybalt lose his temper, Mercutio is already whispering a litany of filth, words falling from his lips as their swords crash against one another. He makes dirty jokes and seeks the young Capulet’s eyes in the middle of a fight, making sure Tybalt knows he wants him to hear. The Prince’s nephew —he hates calling him that, reducing him to his title; he hates when people do the same to him— is mad, but Tybalt thinks there isn’t a single person in Verona who sees him more clearly than Mercutio.

(Mercutio is madness and Tybalt is fury and _oh_ , how the two of them would mix so well. How chaotic would their union be, if only they would let themselves indulge in each other’s company. Tybalt longs for Mercutio, not sure if it’s blood or flesh he’s seeking. Either will bring pleasure.)

Tybalt finds himself craving Mercutio’s attention. He seeks fights with the madman more often than not, feeling the rush of adrenaline whenever they find themselves alone. Between the blood and the sharp words, Tybalt feels more at home than he’s felt in a long time. He’d be worried if he bothered to care. But when their swords clash, he can see it burning in Mercutio’s eyes. He feels at home too.

The heads of house Capulet and house Montague frown in disapproval when the Prince’s sight is upon them, but secretly take pleasure in seeing the blood of their enemy gleaming on their kin’s swords. How could anyone expect their offspring to be any different when it’s their own words that have poisoned them with hatred? Verona is a violent city, her streets painted red with her children’s blood. The same red that blurs Tybalt’s sight when he’s full of anger, the venom in his veins making his body tremble so badly it almost becomes impossible to hold his sword properly. The same red that drips from Mercutio’s lips as he throws his head back with laughter, the sound far too manic to be joyful, the bloodied nose and mouth making him look rather wretched.

Mercutio has nothing to do with the feud at all, and yet he throws himself in the way of Capulet steel as if he was a Montague in everything but name. Tybalt sometimes hates him for it. Even if he has a newfound sense of belonging thanks to the strange feeling that the Prince’s nephew instills in him, Tybalt grows angry in a strange, different way when he sees how passionately he’s willing to fight for the Montague dogs at his side.

(The word is jealous. He grows jealous when Mercutio’s attention is stolen from him. His chest constricts painfully at the thought of that overwhelming gaze fixed on someone else’s eyes. He is a selfish man; Tybalt wants to believe for a second that Mercutio only ever looks at him with such intensity. But he won’t ever admit to such feelings, especially not when Romeo and Benvolio are involved too.)

So he fights harder, throws sharp barbs at the royal heir and draws his fury and blood with them. Mercutio, however, is far from scared. The madman revels on this sort of games, seeks out the cat’s claws and grins in the face of danger. He’s reckless and unpredictable, except he’s not, not quite; Tybalt may be prone to being blinded by rage, but he has learned the dance that the young Escalus loves. Most steps are carefully thought to make himself look reckless. They yell, they fight, they wound up bruised and bloodied. Mercutio revels in every second of it.

When they finally crash together —it was inevitable, Mercutio assures him later— it’s just as hot tempered and violent as Tybalt always imagined. A night after a festival, right after a fight between the Montagues and the Capulets, Tybalt had at some point found himself separated from the rest of his men. And he curses his carelessness, as he has wound up at the very gates of the Escalus property. Before he can even think of how to make his way back, Mercutio stumbles out from an alleyway, still laughing at something or someone Tybalt can’t see. There’s a short slash on the noble’s cheek where he had cut him minutes earlier, the blood dried already and some of his hair sticking to it. His clothes are askew and some of the red has dripped onto his shirt. Mercutio looks like a mess.

The madman’s eyes are burning bright as he stares at Tybalt in amusement, his lingering smile shifting into something more cutting, more feral, while he approaches with quick steps. Tybalt’s hand is already going for his sword, fully expecting an attack, but Mercutio takes a handful of his shirt and pulls him closer, his bruised lips pressing onto Tybalt’s. And it all unravels from there. Soon Tybalt finds himself following Mercutio into the quiet house as if enthralled by his kisses, both unable to keep their hands off each other as they move through the dimly lit halls.

“I always think about how your mouth would feel wrapped around me.” Mercutio tells him between gasps of breath when they finally manage to get to his room, after one too many distractions along the way. His grin is too smug for Tybalt’s liking, so he crashes his mouth to his and drinks down his moans as he pushes the door closed behind them.

The room is quickly filled with their heavy breathing and barely contained groans, both of them struggling to get their clothes off as fast as possible without losing touch with each other. Tybalt can’t remember if anyone saw him following Mercutio into the Escalus property and up the stairs; it should concern him more if one of the Prince’s servants knows he’s here, but he’s too busy sinking his teeth into the other man’s neck. The heat curling in his gut flares up when Mercutio groans loudly and shivers, inciting him to do it again, harder this time. His sharp nails are digging into Tybalt’s back hard enough that it feels like the fabric of his shirt should be falling apart. Maybe it’s them who are ripping at the seams.

Mercutio drags them both onto the bed. Tybalt takes the chance to get rid of his bloodied shirt and the rest of his clothes before shifting his attention to the bare body that lays in front of him. He can see the angry, already-bruising bites he’s left on Mercutio’s neck. It’s not nearly enough; he wants to cover him in marks, make him remember this night even after they go back to fighting in the streets. Tybalt climbs into Mercutio’s lap and pulls him closer by his long, messy hair, kissing him until neither of them can breathe.

Even with their clothes off, they feel like they’re being bathed in fire. Their skin is sleek with sweat and there where their bodies meet, the touch lingers. Mercutio won’t stop purring into his ear, letting Tybalt know how beautiful he looks in his bed with that hungry look in his eyes. How he loves to touch him and how they have taken too long, dear Tybalt, they could have been doing this instead of painting the streets red with each other’s blood.

“But that too has its charm, doesn’t it?” Mercutio asks in a gasp, one hand wrapped around both their cocks, holding them together as he jerks them off. Tybalt hisses and presses his face against Mercutio’s shoulder; the heat inside him is going to eat him alive.

Mercutio shifts his hand so he can completely wrap his fingers around Tybalt’s erection only. His grip tightens and the Capulet cries out, moving his hips almost desperately. “But if I’m honest with you, lovely Prince of Cats,” whispers the Escalus heir, “I rather prefer tearing you apart like this.”

Tybalt comes hard as if by command. A mixture of embarrassment and ‘more, more, more’ invades his chest, especially because of how fucking proud Mercutio looks. But he doesn’t make fun of him; instead, he keeps his gaze steady as he brings his hand up to his lips and licks his fingers clean. And Tybalt —hungry, selfish, _burning_ Tybalt— cannot take his eyes off this sinful madman that is making him harden again. He leans forward and pushes away Mercutio’s hand so he can catch his lips, licking his own taste out of the other’s mouth. He’s almost ashamed of how much he’s enjoying this. Almost.

Deft fingers climb up his neck and twist themselves into his hair, pulling him away and giving Mercutio the chance to direct his enemy’s attention to his unattended cock. The prince’s nephew smiles his lovely, dangerous smile and his words from earlier crawl back to Tybalt.

“You’re fucking disgusting.” he tells Mercutio as he pushes him onto his back, “How long have you been fantasizing about this? You probably think of it when we fight, you wretched fool.”

Mercutio laughs and lets his head fall back so he can look at the ceiling, “This isn’t endearing, Capulet. Your seductive talk is terrible, I hope you’re planning to give your mouth a better use.”

Tybalt finds his way between the long, pale legs of the royal heir and with a smirk he takes the hardened member into his mouth without so much as a warning.

He hears Mercutio curse loudly and can see him snap to attention as soon as the searing warmth of Tybalt’s mouth encloses around him. His skin is flushed, wild eyes fixed on the way his head moves up and down; he stares in awe, as if he had not actually expected this to happen. Tybalt feels the rush of pride and smugness fill him, a heady feeling that almost makes him dizzy. The fact that it’s him holding Mercutio’s attention, making him moan and tremble, it’s intoxicating. Feeding directly into the jealousy whispering to the Capulet that this is something for him and no one else. A gift given in secret, away from prying Montague eyes.

He takes Mercutio even deeper, hand moving in tandem with his head. Pushing his enemy closer to the edge. The prince’s nephew cannot keep his mouth shut; there’s an infinite cascade of moans mixed with praise and curses falling from his lips. As Tybalt’s fingers tighten slightly and his tongue presses against the underside of his dick, Mercutio’s words get more and more jumbled until all he can manage to do is bury a hand in Tybalt’s hair and stutter out a loud moan as he comes in his mouth.

Mercutio falls back onto the bed, exhausted but very clearly pleased, once the Capulet lets him go. Tybalt shifts and moves until he’s level with him and then kisses him.

Even though he’s the one that started the kiss, Tybalt is suddenly overwhelmed, surprised at how languid it is. It’s unsettling and painfully good; he gets that strange sense of belonging that he only thought fights could bring to him. When they part, he stays very still as he tries to gather himself back together. Something constricts in his chest and he thinks that it must show in his expression, because Mercutio sighs and pulls him closer to kiss him again in that unfamiliar, soft manner. Tybalt has no idea what he must have seen for him to react like that and he’s not sure he wants to know. It feels like it might break whatever spell has been woven between them.

Mercutio doesn’t kick him out. He only gets up to properly lock the doors of his rooms and returns to bed to straddle Tybalt, working him up for the third time in the night. It’s not the last time by far, but they spend just as much attention leaving marks all over their bodies —glaring reminders for when the sun rises and they have to go back to their lives. When they finally allow themselves to be defeated by sleep and tiredness, the sky is becoming lighter. They sleep wound together, half wrapped in the messy sheets of Mercutio’s bed. Tybalt, more asleep than awake, concedes to himself that he would not be opposed to this —whatever it is— happening again.

The night they share does not lure them away from dueling in the streets. They do, however, find themselves slipping away into the night to find a secluded spot in a tavern, a hard to reach rooftop or even an abandoned house to kiss each other senseless. Sometimes they look for the hidden corners that not even the rest of their brethren know of and they fuck until it feels like their bodies will collapse. And as the sun rises, they leave their self made havens to return to their roles. If either Tybalt’s kinsmen or Mercutio’s friends notice the strange disappearances of the two of them, they do not make mention of it.

(In the midst of their fights, Tybalt sometimes catches a flash of bruised skin when Mercutio and him are face to face, swords locked in their deadly dance. And Mercutio always looks him straight in the eye and smiles in that strange, sharp way that sends heat sharply into Tybalt’s groin. How he wishes he could kiss that smug look off his face in that moment. Topple him over and add new bruises to the ones already beautifully adorning his lover. Bite down on his flesh and let the unworthy Montagues and his Capulet brothers know that the prince’s nephew is _his_ and his alone.)

Mercutio, reckless as ever, suggests escaping to a neighbouring town for a day. It’s risky; someone might see them, recognize the royal and send word to the Prince. Less likely, but someone could also recognize Tybalt and mention it to his uncle. Tybalt points this out but Mercutio insists they can travel through the night and spend the day inside, then leave for Verona at dawn. Tybalt finally caves in after much insistence, if only to get him to stop talking.

It takes them a couple of weeks to gather coin without raising alarms. The opportunity presents itself on the next carnival, when everyone is too busy and too drunk to notice a young couple slip away into the night on horses borrowed from a lady that owes Mercutio a favor or two.

They let the horses race. Only the rhythmic fall of the beasts’ feet, the howl of the wind around them and the shifting of trees and bushes can be heard. It suddenly dawns upon Tybalt that rarely, if ever, has he felt this free. Mercutio is smiling by his side and there’s a soft kind of fondness in his eyes, one that Tybalt has never seen before. It makes his breath catch, makes him wish it could always be like this, makes him want to reach out and cradle Mercutio’s face in his hands and kiss him in thanks for what he has been given. But he fears that if he speaks his feelings out loud, fate will have anything good wretched out of his hands. So he keeps quiet, but dares to give Mercutio a sincere, hesitant smile under the cover of the night skies.

They arrive to Padua just as the first lights of the sun start to color the horizon. Mercutio guides them through the maze of streets until they reach a small, almost hidden hostel. The man in charge is too tired to ask questions and lets them through without a problem, tells them they can put away the horses in the stable in the back. As soon as they’re done taking care of their rides and locking the room’s door behind them, Tybalt pulls Mercutio close to him, kissing him deeply, tender. As tender as he can be, at least.

And he can tell that Mercutio is confused by the sudden show of affection. He makes a small noise but kisses him back, hesitating at first but eventually giving in without questioning his sudden change. Tybalt is grateful; he has never been good with putting emotions into words, but he wants to thank Mercutio for dragging him to this city in the middle of the night. Whether he’s aware of it or not, the prince’s nephew has given them a small escape away from everything; away from the blood and the fury, from their duties, from their families and friends, from the chaos that is Verona. Even if it’s only for a day, he’s grateful for it.

The tenderness is short-lived, as it is usual with them. Mercutio bites him on the lips and moans into the kiss as Tybalt bites back harder. They stumble to the bed, much like their first time in the Escalus estate, and Tybalt falls back onto the bed. Mercutio promptly climbs and straddles him, his fingers unbuttoning his own shirt and then Tybalt’s as he kisses his neck. They’re completely out of their clothes in a matter of seconds. They’re tired and sore from riding all night, but they’re so eager to make their time here count that they don’t care.

Tybalt has his slicked fingers inside Mercutio in no time, slowly fucking him open just to hear him hiss to move faster, to get inside him already. But he’s enjoying the view of the madman on his lap, moaning and shivering, eyes halfway closed, and cock already leaking. No matter how many times they do this, Tybalt still feels a swell of smugness and pride to know that not only is he able to see the royal heir like this, but he’s the cause of it all.

Mercutio is not as amused, it seems, because he claws at Tybalt’s chest and growls, hurrying him. The Capulet laughs and drags his fingers out slowly just to make him whine again. He pulls Mercutio by the neck to kiss him as he pushes his cock inside of him, swallowing down each other’s moans. When he’s fully sheathed in, Tybalt breaks the kiss to look at his lover’s face. Mercutio’s eyes are halfway open, skin slightly flushed and sweating, his mouth swollen by their rough kissing. There’s an openness to his expression that would normally make Tybalt recoil in confusion, but now, here in this tiny room in Padua, he lets himself sink into it.

Never one to just stay still, Mercutio rides him as if they hadn’t spent hours on horses, as if his thighs and back aren’t surely screaming in protest. Tybalt has his fingers gripping the royal’s narrow hips, pressing bruises on his skin, while his lips make sure to keep him from making too much noise. But Mercutio will occasionally clench around Tybalt’s cock and make him bite his tongue to stop a groan from escaping him. He can tell from the fool’s breathless laughter that he’s very much enjoying himself.

Their rhythm picks up as they get closer. Tybalt’s hand wraps around Mercutio’s dick in tandem with his thrusts and it’s not long before he comes, tensing with his mouth pressed against a recent mark on the Capulet’s neck. Tybalt finishes almost immediately, coming inside of Mercutio. He pulls out after they’ve caught their breath and they roll over so that they’re both on the bed, still pressed onto each other. They exchange lazy kisses as they slowly drift off into sleep, Tybalt nestling his head under Mercutio’s.

They spend most the day sleeping and fucking, leaving their room only when they get too hungry to ignore the rumbling of their stomachs. Mercutio guides him once again through the streets, both of them dressed simply enough that they blend into the small crowds. Here there is no Montagues hunting down or being hunted by Capulets, no Prince always watching. They eat in peace and then wander off through the city. When the sun begins to hide, they make their way back to their hostel. And when they reach their room and Tybalt reluctantly begins to pack away his belongings, Mercutio circles him with his arms and whispers to him. They could spend one more night in Padua, if the kind Prince of Cats would be willing, he says. Tybalt wishes he could say he opposes him strongly; he does not give in immediately only so he can deny the sheer relief that he feels knowing they can have one more day of this.

They stay a second night, and then a third. They do not stay a fourth because money is running out and they are growing concerned that someone might be aware that they’re missing by now, even if they do not say it outloud. So they eat lunch and take food for the night, packing their scarce belongings onto their horses and set for Verona.

The ride back is different, almost solem. Tybalt had felt a pang of longing as they left Padua behind and it only becomes stronger as they get closer and closer to Verona, as he stares at the Escalus riding alongside of him. Their rests are quiet and quick. When the city finally starts to come into view, Mercutio breaks his gaze away from the road to look at Tybalt and smile that crooked, warm smile one more time before they ride past the gates. They share one last hasty kiss in the stables where they return their horses before parting ways.

In hindsight, it was too good to last for long.

Tybalt and Mercutio had planned to steal away from the crowd once again at the Capulet ball, take the opportunity to lock themselves in Tybalt’s rooms and spend the night. Tybalt is already on edge, patience run thin by his aunt and uncle and the preparations for the ball. He knows he must keep up a facade or risk bringing attention to himself, but the promise of taking the prince’s nephew on his bed and the memories of their last escapade have him already half hard and Mercutio is nowhere to be found.

As he searches for the damn fool in the sea of masks and bright costumes, Tybalt is instead met by a sight that freezes him on the spot. Romeo, mask off in, perhaps, a lapse of judgement, is speaking to Juliet, who looks absolutely enthralled by the Montague.

Any and all thoughts of Mercutio are trampled out of his mind as Tybalt’s rage claws at his insides. He has the urge to kill the Montague bastard for even daring to lay his eyes on his dearest cousin. The crowd swallows them, leaving Tybalt to seethe and stumble to his uncle in an attempt to send the guards down to hunt Romeo or let him bring Romeo down himself. His uncle not only dismisses him, but threatens him not to spill blood in his house. And Tybalt, brimming with anger and frustration, storms away from the ball to lock himself in his rooms and try and forget about the whole thing.

He can’t forget Romeo’s disrespect. But he does forget Mercutio and their meeting.

Like a mad hound set loose, he seeks Romeo the very next day. And as fate would have it, he finds Mercutio and Benvolio instead. Arm in arm, the Escalus heir mid laugh while the Montague boy has already noticed Tybalt and the rest of the Capulets circling closer and closer. He sees his tension, his muttered pleas to his friend so they may leave before a fight breaks out. Benvolio always had been an advocate for peace, even if his words have always fallen on deaf ears. “Men’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze.” Mercutio says as he takes a look around them and catches Tybalt’s eye, stretching not unlike an animal preparing to pounce, “I will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I.”

Romeo, who decides to appear right as Tybalt and Mercutio are almost at each other’s throats, pleads that the Capulets hear him. He claims to love Tybalt for good reason —Tybalt immediately thinks of Juliet and his sight blurs with red. He’s ripping the fucking boy apart with his own hands.

It’s Mercutio who steps forward, sword in hand and smile cutting. Tybalt’s demands to Romeo seem to have given the madman’s words and blows an edge that hasn’t been there in a long time. His eyes become cold and hard as jewels and he spits venom at Tybalt, angering him beyond what is wise. The fact that the Escalus can muster such an intense feeling for his friend makes the jealousy sing in Tybalt’s veins. It would sting deeply if he allowed himself to focus on something other than his hatred for a second; he can’t, he won’t, he does his best to ignore the hurt that surfaces in Mercutio’s face when his mask of recklessness and anger slips. He vaguely hopes his fury is enough to cover his own hurt.

They step into the familiar dance, swords clashing and shifting, eyes not leaving the other as they meet one another time and time again. The moment feels longer than it must be. Tybalt can hear the screams of the Capulets and Benvolio, Romeo’s yelling for them to stop; Mercutio’s laughter rings clearer than any of the other sounds. The young Montague is trying to come in between them, and isn’t that the constant of Tybalt’s life? Fucking Montagues stealing Mercutio away from him, getting in the way, taking his hidden haven. The flames inside of Tybalt set him ablaze.

It happens too quickly. Tybalt moves forward, following Mercutio in their dance, when out of nowhere he is crashing into Romeo, the boy’s arms spread open to stop him. He sees the prince’s nephew stumble back a couple of steps. His face loses all traces of a fight for a second and a panicked expression takes over; he groans in pain. Romeo asks if he’s alright. All eyes fall on Mercutio and his face promptly changes to a smile that attempts to be playful but is too strained, too sharp.

“It’s just a scratch.” Tybalt hears him say as he pushes Romeo away, trying to walk towards Benvolio and stumbling. Both Montagues run to catch him, only to be pushed away again. The Capulets are surprisingly quiet, unsure of what to do for once. “Not as deep as a well, nor as wide as a church-door, but it is enough.”

He is pretending, Tybalt thinks as he sees him stumble and fall against his friends, he cannot be hurt that badly. Mercutio laughs, hysterical and painful, and in the same breath he curses them all, their houses and their god-forsaken feud. Tybalt is still snarling as the prince’s nephew grabs him by the shirt, but immediately stills the moment he notices the blood beginning to stain the madman’s clothes. The shock doesn’t stop the Capulet from catching Mercutio as his knees give out and he falls. Tybalt is shaking him and calling his name, and so are Romeo and Benvolio and a couple of Montagues that had been watching from the sideline. God, he wishes he had been lying, Tybalt frantically thinks as Mercutio’s blood quickly drenches the fabric and the Capulet’s own hands, as the Montagues wretch their fallen man away from Tybalt.

Mercutio writhes in Romeo’s arms as his words spill out like the blood from his wound. His voice is far too frantic and soft for Tybalt to hear; he can’t hear much at all, it’s as if he had been suddenly thrown underwater. Someone is screaming for help. He is aware of the rest of the Capulets cursing and muttering among themselves, how they tug at his arms and, when they realize that won’t work, physically dragging him away from there.

Mercutio is dying. Mercutio will be dead before they can find him a doctor, he’s sure of it. The blood covering Tybalt —the same shade as the rage that blinds him, of Mercutio’s lips when they kissed for hours— is too much. The Capulets have let go of Tybalt and though he keeps walking, he falls behind. He can’t take his eyes away from his blood-stained fingers. He can’t think, can’t breathe properly. He needs to get the blood off his hands, but no matter how much he tries it clings to his skin. Marking him as Mercutio’s killer.

There’s a pain-stricken scream from behind him. Romeo, his tears still falling and his clothes drenched in the same blood as Tybalt, is running towards him. And as he gets closer, Tybalt can hear what he demands, “Either you, or I, or both must go with him.”

His hand moves immediately to the dagger he has left, but Romeo is, for once, faster. He charges at Tybalt, clashing into him; and as the boy is pulled away by Benvolio, he can feel the burst of pain from where the knife met his chest. The Capulet looks down and realizes that it’s his very own weapon, the same that he had wounded Mercutio with. The steel is deeply lodged inside his chest; he can’t breathe properly, nor he can seem to stop the blood. Romeo runs away by Benvolio’s command. Tybalt can’t hear anything but a deafening ringing and the faint voice of Mercutio whispering his curse again and again in his ear. The pain increases with every panicked breath, making him feel like he’s choking.

Tybalt crumples to the ground, falling first to his knees and then on his side. His vision is going dark. Faintly he’s aware of someone hoisting him up to hold him while someone else pulls out the knife. There’s talking, but he can’t really understand any of it. Tybalt knows what will happen and can’t help but wonder if Mercutio felt the same. He closes his eyes.

(There’s a small, hopeless part of him that wonders if he’ll get to see him again, after this. He doesn’t want to consider it, doesn’t want to get his hopes up only to be bitterly disappointed when he wounds up alone in whatever afterlife there is, if there’s any at all.)

He must have fallen unconscious. His eyes are closed and he’s too tired to open them, but he can tell his head is on someone’s lap. There’s fingers softly running through his hair and brushing strands of hair away from his face. The ringing is gone. The pain in his chest has subsided to a dull ache, but he can’t feel the knife anymore, nor the blood soaking his clothes. Tybalt doesn’t move for what feels like ages, until a quiet voice calls his name and he begrudgingly tries to open his eyes.

Once he has adjusted to the bright light, he’s met by a grinning, albeit rather disheveled Mercutio. Tybalt blinks and props himself on his elbows so he can look around properly. They’re inside a tiny hostel room, warm sunlight pooling on the bed; beyond the window, he can see the empty streets of Padua stretch into the distance. When his hand goes to his chest, he finds the blood and his dagger gone, as if nothing had happened. He hears Mercutio chuckle and turns to see him; his clothes are rumpled, as he was after the fight, but no blood, no gaping wound in sight.

“My dear Prince of Cats, how nice of you to come keep me company.” Mercutio says in mock-surprise, but the is no heat in his words. “Though I would have much preferred if we could have returned to this place by other means.”

Tybalt sits up and looks around once more, hands still clutching his chest. “So we really are…” he asks, hesitantly.

“Dead? Tragically so, yes.” Mercutio hums as he nods slowly.

Tybalt hums too, brow creasing. Mercutio seems to read something in his expression yet again, because he opens his mouth as if he is about to say something, but Tybalt cuts him off before he can. “I wasn’t aiming to kill you, you must–” He needs Mercutio to know that he wouldn’t have, even if it means nothing now. Tybalt takes his face in his hands like he longed to do in Padua, pulls Mercutio close as he whispers, “You know that, don’t you?”

Mercutio stares at him, searching his expression and he sighs; Tybalt is reminded of that first night, an eternity ago, when he did the same. “I know. I knew even as I died and it angered me so much, that Romeo would be so clumsy, that you were so angry. Such a foolish mess!” He sighs again and presses his forehead to Tybalt’s, tone softening. “But what’s done is done, my dearest Tybalt, and there’s no reason to linger on past matters.”

He takes Mercutio by surprise when he kisses him softly. There is no danger in doing so now; they’ve left Verona and it’s bloodshed and expectations. So Tybalt kisses him and Mercutio grins against his lips, pulls him closer so that he can wrap his arms around his neck. And is in this place —this tiny, sunlit room, with their arms wrapped around each other and no need to break apart— that Tybalt feels he’s found home at last.

**Author's Note:**

> I left the descriptions vague on purpose bc while I was inspired by the original play and several versions of the musical, I didn’t have any particular version of the characters in mind when I wrote this.


End file.
